A Thousand Years
by FauxInnocence
Summary: Their relationship began as a one-sided lie, a command, with a single goal; to crush Punk's spirit. However, what happens when the feelings become mutual? Will all go according to plan...or will it erupt into something more? -M in later chapters. Takes place during Punk/Jericho fued-
1. Chapter 1

**.**

**Okay, even though this is just a second account (because I do write for other fandoms, but every time I tried posting a Wrestling one, everyone following me for my other stories would get upset. I just thought it's easier this way.) I'm still worried. I mean, this is technically my first story, at least on my new account.**

**Anyway, as of right now, no smut yet, however I am keeping it M. Sex IS going to happen (of course), just in a few more chapters. I probably should keep it at T until then, but, I have a feeling then I'd draw in hardcore T-Only people, who wont like the sudden change of rating.**

**Ok, enough rambling!**

**Disclaimer- I don't own, you don't sue.**

* * *

_Tap-tap. Tap-tap-tap. _

Fingers drummed steadily on the wood of the table, the rhythm piercing through the thick silence. Then, they would stop, and eyes would flicker up and stare at the other man sitting feet away. The pattern continued as such; _Tap-Tap. _Stare. _Tap-Tap-Tap._ Stare.

Chris Jericho squinted, studying the dark-haired wrestler across the room, who, in turn, seemed oblivious to the set of eyes on him. The Canadian took in everything; from the subtle pucker of the man's lips as he sipped at the soda in his hands, to the way he seemed to purposely withdrawal himself from the rest of the men in the catering hall. Chris had to admit the man was attractive. He'd have men and women alike flocking to him, if it weren't for his sharp tongue.

The blonde chuckled to himself. He'd been on the receiving end of the raven's rage more than once. Smirking, he moved his fingers back to the tabletop, tracing the small cracks in the wood.

_Tap-tap-tap._

CM Punk stiffened in his seat, hands clenching the Pepsi bottle tight. He knew the blonde was bothering him on purpose. Hell, the man had done everything in his power to get under his skin. Fingers drumming on a table shouldn't get him this riled up. Then again, everything Jericho did got him riled.

Punk shut his eyes, rubbing his temples. He considered up and leaving, until he heard the scrape of chair-on-tile. A smirk quirked onto his lips as he felt absence of eyes on him. Peace. Finally.

He opend his eyes, only to be face-to-face with Chris himself. Biting back a yelp of surprise, Punk settled for a glare.

"Don't give me that look." Chris scolded, plopping down in the open seat across from Punk.

"What look?" Punk asked with an innocent cock of his head.

"That look that you give people you hate."

"I hate everyone, so it's more of a permanent expression than a 'look'" Punk quipped, taking a swig of his soda. "But I _especially_ hate you, so who knows what 'look' I give you?"

Chris bit the inside of his cheek, holding back a response. It wasn't the time or situation for some verbal spar that he _knew_ Punk was itching for.

Yes, for once, that wasn't his goal.

Instead, Chris stayed silent, eyes drilling into Punk's skull, as if he could see right through it, as if he could pluck out his thoughts and lay them out on the table. Punk suppressed a shudder at the thought.

The straight edge stewed in the silence. How dare Chris have the audacity to even be in the same _room_ as him, after what he's done, after the things he said? Punk's stomach tightened in anger. Chris was teasing him, purposely toying with him to see how far he could push.

"Leave or I'm leaving." He finally murmured, voice hard.

Jericho's expression softened slightly at the words. Punk wasn't full of his usual snarky remarks. He was to the point, no less no more. The blonde knew he was dancing on thin ice by merely sitting near him.

It was exciting.

Punk took the silence as a cue to leave. Huffing, he shot up, turning and storming out of catering.

* * *

CM Punk sighed, leaning his face into the cool surface of the wall. He was sick of Chris and his mind games. What was he trying to do?

The Chicago native bit his cheek, thinking back on Chris's silent stare. He looked like he was trying to devour him alive just using his eyes. Punk shut his eyes, breathing deeply. Whatever the Canadian was trying, Punk wasn't going to let him succeed, not this time.

A finger tapping his shoulder caused him to whip around in surprise.

Chris Jericho.

"Is stalking your new pastime?" Punk remarked, eyes burning a hole in Jericho's face.

"Clever." Chris chuckled, lips upturned in a smirk.

Silence fell over the two, before Chris held something out to Punk.

"You forgot your Pepsi." He whispered, leaning close as he set it gently in the man's hands. Slowly, he turned to walk off, before stopping, back turned to Punk. "They say if you drink a lot of something, your lips start to taste like it. Wonder if that's true?"

Punk slid to the floor, eyes never leaving the man's back.

* * *

**Well, there it is. Trust me, dear readers, it will pick up. Fast. **

**Shit's gonna go down.**

**Ahem. Anyway, read, review, love.**


	2. Chapter 2

_**Eep. So sorry this took so long to get up. I had some major writer's block while trying to figure out how to start this.**_

_**Thank you to all who reviewed. I read each one and they help motivate me. Thank you again!**_

* * *

The hotel room door clicked shut, cutting off all traces of light and leaving CM Punk in darkness. He let out a shaky breath, leaning against the cool wood and taking a minute to enjoy the lonely silence. Slowly, he shuffled in the pitch black, blindly feeling around for his bed.

"_Shit."_ He muttered, wincing after bumping his shin on the nightstand. Finally, his fingers brushed against the softness of the quilt.

Punk plopped down on the bed, face first.

His mind was spinning. Jericho's words played in a loop in his mind. He wanted to brush it off as some passing mark, but he knew it wasn't. No one just _says_ something like that. Punk's stomach tightened as he remembered how close Chris's lips were to brushing his cheek. He scowled, rolling over on his side and snatching a pillow, which he promptly shoved his face into.

How could Jericho have shifted from hostile to suave and…flirty? Punk groaned. That word didn't seem to work, yet he knew it was the only one he could use. Yes, Chris Jericho, the bane of Phil Brook's existence, was flirting. The signs were all there; the way his voice seemed to flow out of his mouth, the way his hand lingered slightly on his own.

And his words. Especially his words.

He didn't know what angle Chris was playing, but Punk wasn't going to fall for it. If Jericho expected him to flounder at the innuendo behind his words like a lonely teenage boy, then he had another thing coming. Punk smirked, sitting upright.

"Fuck him." The straight edge declared suddenly, propping himself up against the headboard and turning on the television.

Staring idly at the screen, Punk let his thoughts drift away.

A Pepsi commercial blared on the screen.

Punk touched his lips, and couldn't help but wonder if what Chris had said was true.

* * *

Chris Jericho didn't bother hiding the smirk on his face as he walked through the lobby of the hotel that most of the wrestlers were roomed in. Everything was falling into place. Slowly, but nonetheless, still falling in place.

Jericho's smirk changed into a dazzling grin as he approached the check-in desk at the end of the wide lobby.

"Hi there." He drawled, leaning over the counter and giving the lady behind the counter a heart-melting stare.

"H-Hello." The tiny brunette employee squeaked. The Canadian held in a snort. If only Punk was this easy to get to.

"Mind giving me my room number? I've forgotten." Chris asked, pouting his lips perfectly. The woman nodded.

"May I have your name?"

Chris smirked, chuckling lowly. This was way too easy.

"CM Punk. I'll either be under that or Phil Brooks."

"Room 373."

Chris nodded, sending the woman a smile before turning on his heel and slipping into the closing elevator doors.

The bing that echoed through the metal box of the elevator told Jericho that he arrived on the floor. The door opend to a brightly-lit hallway, carpeted in tacky green. He scanned the doors before him, eyes falling 373.

Chris cleared his throat, rapping his knuckles against the door. He could hear a bed squeak in the room. The door clicked, swinging open, leaving him face to face with a sleepy-looking Phil Brooks.

"Hi." Chris chirped, flashing his teeth.

Punk's eyes widened as he took in the man before him. No one just _knocks_ on his door to talk, much less Chris Jericho. His lips quirked down into a small frown. What the _hell_ was he doing here?

Chris caught hold of the door as Punk tried to slam in his face.

"Hi." Punk responded finally, sarcasm dripping from his words as he leaned coolly against the doorframe.

"What's up?"

"How'd you get my room number?" Chris almost laughed. It was so like Punk; brash, to the point, and not one to spare another's feelings.

"I got it from the lady at the counter." Punk quirked a brow. "May I come inside?"

"I don't want to get pregnant." Chris faltered, before snorting at the joke. Slipping inside the room, he immediately made himself at home, flopping onto the wrinkled bed.

"That wasn't a yes." Punk protested, eyes flashing in anger. Who did Chris think he was? The dark haired man stepped forward, looming over the man currently sprawled across his mattress. This wasn't going to fly.

He reached out, grabbing hold of the man's ankles and roughly tugging him off the quilt. _My bed, bitch,_ he thought victoriously, hopping onto the mattress. Chris yelped as he tumbled to the floor.

"That's no way to treat a guest."

"You're no guest."

Jericho winced. Punk had shifted from humor –cynical humor, but still humor- to blunt snaps. He was fighting a losing game.

"Punk-"

"Leave."

"Listen to m-"

"Leave."

"I'm serious."

"Leave!"

"Phil."

Punk faltered, No one called him Phil; _no one. _Especially Chris Jericho. He ground his teeth together, keeping his eyes trained on the t.v. A small smile played on the blonde's lips, and he clambered into the bed beside the man. Punk chose to stay silent, pretending that the other man wasn't even there. Some would say he was pouting, but he'd deny it.

Nearly a half-hour later, Punk finally spoke, his voice quiet with the sleep he knew was going to take over him at anytime.

"Why are you here?" He murmured, eyes fluttering shut.

Chris sighed softly, fingers lightly brushing the raven's hair from his face.

"To say I'm sorry. For everything." Punk's deep breathing let him know he had fallen asleep. Grinning, he pulled out his phone, quickly typing a text.

'_Plan's underway'_

* * *

_**Well, how'd you guys like it?**_

_**I'm afraid it's not realistic..What do you guys think?**_


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